


Red

by MarthaOswinOswald



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Death, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Rape, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8663623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarthaOswinOswald/pseuds/MarthaOswinOswald
Summary: After Carolyne leaves Roger, he turns to David for support. But with David comes cocaine, and it's not long before Roger's methods of coping start to threaten his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's set in the 80s, and I'm pretty sure David did actually have a mild cocaine addiction during that time. Other than that, the rest of this is fictional. I'm sure you can read the tags and warnings, but all in all, this is a pretty serious and dark story. I did my best to do thorough research of what Roger ends up dealing with, and I hope I managed to write this both honestly and with respect to a tough period in history.

The Flat.

They first did it in 1974. 

They’d been drunk, Judy hadn’t even spoken to Roger for a good two weeks, and it seemed like the thing to do. They’d done it in Roger’s flat, the small three rooms barren and a layer of dust already settling on the floorboards. The one light over the bathroom sink didn’t work, the tap in the kitchen ran cloudy most of the time, and the only piece of relative furniture was an old, sunken mattress in the middle of the living room. 

As the days and months and even years wore on, they kept at it, sneaking off from their wives, their responsibilities, who they were in the waking hours. It didn’t matter how ugly things had become between them during the day and in front of the others. Once the door to the flat was closed and the lights were off, it was just two bodies moving together in the darkness with the dusty air around them and the broken mattress below them. 

It wasn’t an act of love, an act of repressed urge, an act of desperation. It was an act of convenience and loneliness and curiosity, perhaps each in search of liberation. And in that small flat in the dead of night and stagnant hours of the morning, they felt free. Free and hidden away and safe, in a way, curled around each other in the darkness that hid what they didn't want to acknowledge. Then they’d dress and go their separate ways, home to their wives and their lives and who they were outside of that small, dingy flat. The sun would rise, London would wake, and they’d be back in the studio, quarreling tooth and nail like nothing had ever happened. 

They didn’t love each other, they didn’t need each other, and towards the end, they didn’t even like one another. But to not do it all, to steal away to the flat and forget who they were for an hour or two, was simply wrong. To stop would be to change and neither of them liked change all that much. They were afraid of it, fearing what would happen if they did stop. It was their shared catharsis, releasing their anger and confusion and fear on one another. In the mornings, their skin bruised and their mattress more broken than before, things were okay for a while. 

But then they stopped. The Final Cut tore them apart and sent Roger packing. He didn’t officially leave until well into 1985, but one night in January of ‘83, the door of the flat had closed and as he slipped out into the frigid night, he thought he’d never return. He was leaving his plot of liberation, the tiny space he’d carved out to retreat to, but that was alright. He never thought his small space of freedom would soon become his prison. 

 

October of 1983.

“Carolyne left.” 

When David had answered the phone, he hadn’t expected it to be Roger on the other end, sounding so thoroughly distraught and helpless. That was all he said, silence falling between them with faint static coming through the receiver. 

“What? What do you mean she ‘left’?”

“She left me. Gone, all packed up, out of my life.” 

“Rog…” David didn’t really want to talk about this. It was too personal, too emotional. 

“David….” He sounded almost panicked now. 

“Roger, I don’t want to talk abo—” 

“Meet me at the flat in one hour.” And with that, the other end of the line clicked and went dead, leaving David to merely stand there, dumbfounded and overwhelmed, still holding the phone to his ear. 

 

“She left?” David could barely see in the dark, the sun already below the horizon and the drapes pulled shut. Roger was all over him, tearing at his shirt and kissing him violently. 

“Uh-huh.” Roger was trying to get his trousers off. He’d already gotten rid of his shirt and now it was just the pants that had to go. It was no easy feat, stripping his clothes away while simultaneously kissing David hard enough to suck the very air from his lungs.They fell onto the mattress, still kicking away their clothes with David tossing his shirt somewhere into a shadowy corner of the room. Then he yanked off Roger’s underwear and crawled down between his legs. 

It was a fierce night, there on the small mattress in the small flat in their own tiny world. It was nails clawing against skin, teeth nipping against lips, hands tugging at hair, panting and moaning and choked sobs of fear and passion and pleasure. As it passed well into early morning, David dressed and cast one last look down at Roger, who was still splayed out on the floor, looking exhausted and sad. 

“You coming?” He motioned to the door. 

Roger shook his head. “No, you go ahead. I’ve got no one waiting around for me to come home..” 

“Oh…” There was something very sad about how casually he’d said such a thing. “Alright then. Well,” David was already twisting the door handle, halfway out of the flat. “Call if you need me, you know...again.” 

 

And Roger did call again, about a week later, although he sounded much worse than he had the first time. His voice shook and it was clear he’d been crying. But David ignored this, perhaps to help Roger keep his pride, and he drove right over the flat, almost running to the door and jamming the key into the lock, ready to kick the thing down when it didn’t open immediately. When they were finished, he didn’t leave right away, slipping his pants back on and rummaging around in his jacket pocket for something he’d brought for the both of them. He hadn’t really expected Roger to accept his offer. 

“What’s that?” Roger pulled a sheet around him, still not dressed and watching David intently. And when he wasn’t answered immediately, he repeated his question, pointing to the small package of white powder and the razor David was holding. 

“Whaddya think?” He started crushing the powder, pouring a little pile of it onto the floorboards. 

“I’m not going to snort a line of cocaine with you.” 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just figured you might need a bit of a pick me up, you know. It’s been a tough week for you. And if you want to try it, I’ll stay sober, just in case something happens.” 

“No.” He hesitated, less resistant and dead set against the small line David was now pushing together against the scuffed wood floor. “It’s a stupid thing to do.” 

“S’your choice.” David glanced up at Roger, how had pulled the sheet tighter around him, his brows knit together in something like curiosity. “You ever tried it?”

“No…” Roger shook his head slowly. “I tried LSD once or twice, but…” His frown deepened and he began to gnaw on his lip. “What’s it like?”

“Eh.” David shrugged, setting the razor down and closing the bag again. “It varies. Whenever I’m on it, everything’s always a bit more…” he paused, thinking. “Amplified. Colors are brighter, sounds are richer. I get happy, too. It’s not bad, actually.” 

Roger didn’t say anything, still staring at the line of white powder. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s always your choice.” 

Roger was quiet for a moment, still biting his lip and twisting his hands in the sheet wrapped around his shoulders. But David knew what he was about to say; he could see it in his eyes. He’d already made his decision. 

“Alright.” Roger nodded. “I’ll try it. Just a little bit, though. And if I die, it’s your fault.” 

David laughed. “You won’t die. I promise.” 

 

The Coke. 

Roger, although he hated to admit it, rather liked the line of coke he’d tried. And so, a week later, he had another post-coital line. This one was stronger and the high was longer. David did a line as well, the two of them enjoying their high together. It was sensational. That was the only way Roger could think to describe it. And it was even better if they did a line or two before they started ripping at one another’s clothes and wrestling about on the mattress. High out of his mind and screaming as his orgasm hit, David sucking on his neck and tensing around him. Absolutely incredible. 

It was near Christmas time when the small bag David always brought wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel as strong as it had been and his highs were weaker and didn’t last as long. And when he wasn’t in the flat—nevermind David and the sex they were having—he was irritable. Irritable and paranoid and jittery. During the days, he was exhausted and during the nights, he couldn’t sleep. 

In the back of his mind, he knew he was becoming addicted. He also knew that if he did something now, he might be able to salvage his sobriety. He could save himself, refuse to take the coke, and close the flat door one final time and never come back. David seemed alright, like he had more control over that nagging beast inside him. But Roger didn’t. He hadn’t expected that, either. Like everything else he did, he’d automatically expected to have total control. 

But here was something more powerful than he. Something stronger, something all-consuming and relentless. And so, one night in mid-December in the cold, dark flat, Roger did give in. As he watched David zip his pants up and pull his shirt on over his head, he asked, 

“Can you bring more of that?” He motioned to the corner of the plastic bag that was sticking out of David’s coat pocket. 

“What? You mean, like, more for you? Individually?” David frowned, now getting his shoes on. 

Roger glanced down, ashamed, and huddled tighter in the quilt they’d thrown over the mattress a while back. “Yeah, more of it, you know…” 

David paused, about to say ‘no’. But not before he saw Roger’s expression of embarrassment. “Alright.” He nodded and bent down to place a kiss on the top of Roger’s head. “I’ll bring some more. Next week, then?” 

“How about Tuesday?” That was three days from now; Roger knew that. He also knew he couldn’t wait a week. He might kill himself if he had to wait that long. 

“Tuesday it is.” And with that, David was gone. 

 

They broke the mattress one night in January of ‘84. It was already broken, really, but when they finally couldn’t use it anymore, they got a bed. They also put a dresser in, something Roger had urged David to do, although he claimed he didn’t live in the flat. David believed him. Roger had a home and that was where he spent most of his time. He didn’t keep any clothes in the dresser, any food in the kitchen.

He sometimes left after David did and he was sometimes there before David arrived, but generally, they did things together. They undressed together, they fucked together, they got high together. After, of course, they went their separate ways and didn’t speak or interact between their meetings, save for a phone call or two. It was funny, though, as time went by. Their time in the flat had never been all that personal, never emotional, never loving. But, by March of ‘84, it had become even more impersonal than ever. The phone calls grew shorter and so did their meetings, always the same, formulaic routine. 

 

“You got the coke?” Roger lay on the bed, clothes in a pile on the floor. 

“Yeah.” David nodded, yanking his shirt over his head and pulling down his pants and underwear in one smooth motion. 

“Good. Set in on the dresser and let’s make this quick.” 

That’s exactly what David did, tossing the bag on top of the dresser and sliding onto the bed, crawling over Roger on all fours, beginning to kiss his throat and jaw and moving up to suck on his lips. 

“Stop wasting time.” Roger grit his teeth, desperately trying to rub himself against David, aching and impatient. 

“Thought you liked this part.” But David complied, taking the bottle Roger handed him and flipping the top open, spreading the lube onto his fingers. 

“Just hurry, alright?” 

David did, almost timing himself and Roger, seeing just how quickly they could get this thing over with. It was almost an act of annoyance as if to say ‘you said you wanted it quick so I’ll make it quick’. And while he didn’t have any clock or stopwatch, he could count in his head with relative accuracy and he thought something around two or three minutes wasn’t all that bad. Not that bad at all. If that's what Roger wanted so badly. When they were done, David made quick work to wipe himself down and throw Roger the towel, pulling his clothes back on without so much as a word, out the door and down the street before Roger had even gotten off the bed. 

 

The Flu. 

 

By April, David began to worry a bit. Roger was getting rather thin, more so than usual, and he looked like he could use a good wash. He wasn't grimy enough to be repulsive, just a little worn down. His hair was slightly greasy, dark circles had appeared under his eyes, and his skin was awfully pale like he didn’t get much sunlight anymore. Even though it was barely light out, the sun already sinking below the horizon, he’d groaned and turned into his pillow when David had opened the door. His voice was hoarse, too, like he had the beginnings of a cold. 

“You’ve the drugs?” He didn’t open his eyes, curled up at the edge of the bed. That was when David, who was about to put the bag on the dresser, noticed the bucket on the floor. 

“No. No, I don't. Not today, Rog. You alright? You don’t look so good.” 

“S’nothing. I’ve the flu, I think. Oh, god.” He fell silent, before leaning over and hurling into the bucket. Wiping his mouth with the back of one withered hand, he raised his head, staring at David. “You have nothing?” 

“No. I didn’t bring anything.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

David almost thought he’d misheard what Roger had said. “Why am I here? Rog, I’m here to, you know…” He gestured to the bed and then to himself. “I didn’t think this was all about the drugs.” 

“You thought wrong, then.” Roger closed his eyes again, and despite the warm April weather, he curled tighter under the sheets. “Got the chills…” 

“I thought wrong? Rog, this is bad, alright? You need to see a doctor.” 

“I’m fine. And I can’t believe you didn’t bring anything!” 

“I don’t want you on any more drugs, okay?” 

“But I need them!” He suddenly looked sick, a pallid green color spreading across his face. Leaning over, he started retching again and David had to turn away, afraid he’d become sick himself. 

“You don’t need the drugs, Roger! You’re an addict and it’s gone too far. I’m not going to give you any more!” 

“Oh, god…” Roger started to twist his hands in the sheets, fighting down another bout of nausea. “Just gimme the drugs! Please!” 

David was mad, then. Mad and frustrated and confused and almost a little betrayed. Manipulated. He should’ve known it was just about the drugs. And he knew Roger shouldn’t have any more coke, but there was a small part of him that almost wanted Roger to suffer more than he had. 

“Fine! You want the drugs? You’re not getting them from me, so find them yourself!” He pulled out his wallet and slapped a twenty-pound note on top of the dresser. There. Roger could get his precious drugs and it wouldn’t even directly be at the hands of David. Assuming he actually managed to find a dealer, that was. That was how he left Roger, curled in the fetal position and puking his guts out, with a twenty-pound note left on the dresser. And whatever Roger did with that money was none of his business. 

 

The Money. 

David didn’t see Roger for another three weeks. 

He’d spent the first week angry and fuming and stomping around, feeling betrayed and used and discarded. He told himself he didn’t even want to see Roger, didn’t want to even think about him. The second week was when the worry set in. He hadn’t gotten any phone calls, hadn’t heard anything from Nick or Snowy or whoever was keeping tabs on the current situation. Part of him wanted to call and give the house a ring. And eventually, he did, because—as much as he hated admit it—he did feel a bit addicted. 

When he finally did call no one answered. No one picked up on the second, third, or fourth ring, either. That was when the real fear set in, David spending his third week, the first week of May, nervous and anxious. He could only come up with the worst scenarios, Roger overdosing and dead in his bathtub, things like that. How all the good ones went. 

It was with fear and annoyance—annoyance at the fact that he’d finally caved and driven over to the flat one afternoon—that David stood outside with one fist already raised to knock on the black, wooden front door. He’d already stopped by Roger’s house, but the car had been missing from the driveway and after lurking around for a bit, he’d figured he’d head over to the flat instead. He didn’t know if this would actually work. Roger could’ve been out and about. There was a whole city, after all. It wasn’t as if he merely drifted from house to flat and back again. 

David took a deep breath, acutely aware of the tremor in his hands, and knocked once. He knocked again when no one answered, fear clutching his chest, but he thought perhaps he’d seen a dark shape moving around in the space where the drapes just didn’t quite cover the window. And just as he was about to knock a third time, the door opened. It didn’t open very wide, just a few centimeters, enough for Roger to peer out, staring down at him. 

“Oh.” His face twisted into a sneer. “It’s you.” 

“Nice to see you, too. And nice to see you’re alive. I was starting to get worried.” Roger’s only response was a very heavy ‘huh’ and non-committal shrug of the shoulders. “I rang a few times, too. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

“I’m fine, thanks.” 

“You gonna let me in?” David raised his eyebrows. Roger didn’t say anything at first, narrowing his eyes before sighing and yanking the door open, stepping aside to let David in. 

The first David noticed was that Roger was wearing a robe. A black one with long sleeves and a hem that fell only to mid-thigh. It surprised him. It was revealing and sensual and almost feminine: everything Roger wasn't. He looked better, too. No longer feverish and green. He didn’t look as tired, either, and perhaps it was just the fact that he was no longer swallow and sick, but David was almost sure he’d gained a bit of weight back. He was still thin as ever, even more so than he’d been in years past, but not as bad as he had been three weeks ago. 

“You look good.” As Roger crossed over to the dresser, David couldn't suppress the urge to reach out and smack him on the ass. His compliment went unanswered, although David thought there was a faint smirk playing at the corners of Roger's lips. 

“You kept my twenty.” David saw the bill Roger snatched off the top of the dresser. “Good. I’m glad you listened to me. No more coke…” Roger merely snickered to himself, folding the bill up and clutching onto it. “Say, why’d you need drugs or money in the first place? You have more than enough money, right?” David leaned against the door and crossed his arms, watching as Roger slipped the bill into the top dresser drawer and pulled out a matchbook and a pack of cigarettes, shaking one out and lighting it. 

“I did have more than enough money.” 

“You spent all your money?” David’s mouth dropped open. Roger grinned around his cigarette and took a long drag, blowing a stream of smoke up to the ceiling. 

“The good stuff’s not cheap,” he finally said, leaning against the dresser with his arms crossed. 

“And you’ve started smoking again.” 

“Who says I ever stopped?” 

“Rog…” 

“So you’re here to fuck me, I presume?” Roger took another draw, never breaking eye contact. It made David more uncomfortable than it should have. 

“Well, I mean, I wasn’t planning on it...more just to see if you were okay, but…” He changed the subject. “Where’d you get the robe? Looks nice.” 

“A cl—a friend gave it to me.” Roger coughed and turned his attention back to his cigarette. “Look, are we gonna do this or not?” 

“You got somewhere you gotta be?” 

“I assume you’ve got drugs or coke or something with you? ‘Cause if not…” Roger pointed one, long index finger at the door. 

“No, but…” David felt like he should’ve been mad. He’d gotten into this thinking Roger actually wanted to have sex with him, not just to go at it for the drugs. But instead of being mad, he was desperate for the man in front of him. “I’ll give you another twenty and you can get all the drugs you want.” 

“Sounds good.” Roger stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray on the dresser and stepped towards the bed, turning his back to David and untying his robe. It came undone quickly enough and he let it slide off his shoulders and tumble onto the floor around his feet. David forgot how to breathe for a moment, simply staring, until Roger lay down on the bed and shot him a look, as if to say ‘we don’t have all day, you know’.   
Shedding his clothes, David moved to the bed and climbed over Roger, bending down to bite at his neck. And it only progressed from there, and Roger fucked so well, so well, so well. But it was a bit businesslike, too. For such a personal act, they could’ve been strangers. With the last tremors of their orgasms leaving them, David, in a last grab for intimacy, kissed Roger full on the mouth and pulled him close. This was tolerated for a minute or two before he was shoved away. So he got up off the bed, pulled his clothes back on, and dug around in his wallet for another twenty. Roger didn’t move, still lying on the bed with a subdued and satisfied look in his eyes. 

Placing the bill on the dresser, David left, letting the door shut behind him and trying to ignore the vague sense of unease that was working its way under his skin. Because surely, this wasn’t what it seemed to be. He was paying for the coke, right? He wasn’t paying for the blowjobs and handjobs and kisses. He wasn’t paying for Roger to either fuck him or take the fucking. He was paying for the drugs, the drugs that Roger could no longer apparently pay for himself. He wasn’t paying for the sex, no. Just the drugs…

And that was how it continued for the next few months. David would come around at whatever time Roger told him to. They wouldn’t talk; they never did, just quick to get on with it and be done. David would leave a bill on the dresser. Sometimes it was a twenty and other times it was a fifty. Roger had gotten skinnier again, too. Skinny and tired and more sickly, like he hadn’t seen the sunlight in some time. But David ignored that. If he thought about it for too long, he knew he’d come up with an answer he didn’t like. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to think about the obvious, didn’t want to think about what was right in front of him, just daring him to look. 

 

The Key. 

 

One day in November, with 1984 drawing to a close, Ginger went on some awful cleaning binge. Something about the holidays and resolutions and God knows what else, but David was happy to help. He’d been cleaning out his study, pushing about boxes and perhaps stopping occasionally to peer inside one. He hadn’t found much, just a lot of old rough drafts of lyrics, the occasional pick, a snapped set of strings. The usually useless odds and ends. But then, he found the key. 

In ‘74, when they’d first started using the flat, Roger had given David a key. He’d used it regularly, too, right up until January of ‘83, when they’d thought they’d seen the last of one another. And he’d used after that, as well. But at some point, he’d tucked it away and just started showing up whenever Roger asked him to be there. He'd actually forgotten it exsisted. He was sure there was more to the story. It couldn’t just be Roger and his ever-growing cocaine use. And now, he had key that Roger didn’t know about, away into the flat without being invited over, only to be rushed out with his wallet a few bills lighter. He knew he shouldn’t snoop because—as awful as it had become—it was still Roger’s private life and it really wasn’t anyone else’s business. But he was just so curious and...worried. That was it. That’s how he could justify it all. He was worried and looking out for someone he was actually starting to care about. 

And that was how he was where he was: wrapped in a winter coat at two in the afternoon and standing outside the door to the flat with the key clutched in his palm, the tips of his fingers already getting that chill only pre-winter cold could bring. He could see his breath in the air, as well, breath that came in short, nervous pants. Who knew what he’d find on the other side of the door. Probably Roger splayed out on the bed and high as a kite. Hopefully, no one would be there, and he could poke through things in peace. His hands shook as he tried to slip the key into the lock, having to try a few times to actually get it in. He was terrified, really, but if he didn’t do it now, he never would. So, in one smooth motion, he twisted the key and pushed the door open. 

The bed was the first thing the eye landed on. It was located directly in front of the door and on the opposite wall, a straight shot. It was the centerpiece of the flat and that was what you saw first, always. Except, there was something wrong with the bed. It looked a little strange, a little off. And then David noticed not one pair of feet, but two. Two sets of legs, one torso covering the body underneath it, covering the body pressed against the mattress. Two very male bodies, moving together and slamming the headboard against the floor, making the bed creak, a persistent rhythm underneath their grunts and moans. They knew the door was open then, the man on top glancing over his shoulder and the man below him sitting up to stare at David. 

And, oh god, that was Roger. Roger underneath some other man and getting his brains fucked out. He looked horrified and mortified and angry all at once before David had enough composure to close the door again without ever even stepping into the room. He just stood there, outside in the frigid air, shocked, appalled, and a little disgusted, the image he’d just seen burned behind his eyelids, even when he screwed up his face and put his hands over his eyes. 

He wasn’t sure how long he waited, head in his hands and willing himself to breathe evenly. Eventually, the man stepped out and shut the door behind him, giving David a scowl before walking off and disappearing around the corner. The door opened again, just a crack, Roger staring out through the slat, his eyes wide and fearful. It was worried sort of expression. He let David inside, pulling his robe even tighter around him and taking a seat on the bed. 

“Another man, Rog.” That was all David said. That was all he could say without fearing he’d start screaming or crying. Roger didn’t say anything, standing only to grab the still-burning cigarette that was resting in the ashtray on the dresser. He sat back down, head bent. “Another man, Rog. What, you thought I wasn’t going to find out?” The most frustrating part of this was Roger refusing to make eye contact, just staring down at the quilt underneath him. “Wait…he paid you, didn’t he?” 

Roger did say something then, a look of horror and dismay on his face. “Is that what you think of me? A fucking prostitute?” 

“It’s starting to look like it.” 

Roger's mouth hung open, but no sound came out. "Why the fuck...why would you...if I...and...that I would have such little dignity and self-respect to go and have men pay me to lay them? Oh my god.” That last bit was said with utter disgust, Roger standing and stamping out his cigarette, before opening the bathroom door and flicking the light on. He still didn’t look at David, instead focused on his own reflection in the mirror. 

“But…” David couldn’t finish, more confused than ever. It wasn’t like he completely believed Roger, believed his denial, but there was something so pure and utterly hurt in his tone. 

“Do you want to know what’s going on?” Roger turned around, leaning against the sink, staring at David through the bathroom doorway. 

“Yeah, the truth would be nice.” 

“I was seeing another man, alright? Just one man, off on the side.” 

“An affair? You were having an affair?” David couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“Well. it’s not like you’re exactly monogamous with Ginger, now are you?” And, shit, because he had a point. He really did. But David sure as hell didn’t want to admit that, to admit he was right. He didn't want to admit his jealousy either. They’d been shagging away for over ten years now and he had no plans of telling his wife anytime soon. “Look.” Roger moved to stand in front of him, holding onto David’s waist. “I’ll break it off with him, okay? It wasn’t working anyways.” 

“Promise?” David narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the way Roger was touching him through his jeans. 

“Promise.” Roger kissed him, holding onto his face and whispering to him like he cared, like how they'd spoken to each other when they were younger and softer. For a second, David managed to swat him away long enough to pull out his wallet and dig around for a one-hundred-pound note. 

“Here you go.” He slid the bill to Roger, who grinned and placed it on the dresser. “Now…” David took him by the shoulders, shoving him onto the bed. “I don’t always give you this much, so you better show your thanks, right?” 

“Mm-hm.” Roger nodded quickly. “You won’t be disappointed. I promise.” 

 

The Fight. 

 

It was April of 1985 when they saw each other again. David had planned on paying the flat a visit in December, but then Christmas had come, followed by New Years. Then it was Valentine’s Day and that almost got him seeing Roger again, but then it was March and already past his birthday… 

It was already eight-thirty when he pulled up to the flat, the sky a bluish-black with only the palest hues of pink and purple left on the horizon. His only comfort was seeing a dim glow from the behind the curtains and pouring through the window and onto the street. So at least he knew someone was inside. 

He had his key with him, in the left pocket of his jacket, but nevermind that. He decided he’d knock; the last time hadn’t worked out so great, and while he hoped Roger wasn’t hiding anything, he couldn’t disrespect another man’s privacy. He had to hesitate a bit though, standing outside the door with one fist raised against the wood. Then he was knocking once, twice, three times, and there was no going back now. 

“One moment, please, if you could!” Yep, that was Roger, definitely, but he sounded alright, so that was a start. Not that he knew it was David, who never bothered calling or announcing his arrival anymore, but at least he didn’t sound in any danger. 

Suddenly, something told David he shouldn’t be seen. It was intuition, almost, something that said either to get back in the car and wait until the door was opened or to go wait around the corner. He didn’t why he felt that way, but it was strong enough to send him across the street and into the shadows, ducking behind one of the large trees lining the sidewalk. It was a good five minutes until the door swung open, but it wasn’t Roger who walked out. It was two men, one still tucking in his shirt and the other zipping up his pants. David gasped but managed to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise. And, oh god, he knew what was happening now. It probably had been for over a year and he’d just ignored it, ignored the obvious that was right under his nose. 

The first man, David pegged him at about thirty, took the other man’s hand and led him off the front steps and down the street, melting into the darkness. The door opened a second time, and it was Roger now, poking his head out and looking left and right. Even from this far away, David could tell he had the robe on, but it looked loose like it had been quickly pulled on and hastily tied. That confirmed it; David knew what was going on now. 

And that was what got him stepping out of the shadows and under the beam of the streetlight. Roger spotted him, his face falling. Then Roger was gone, disappearing back into the flat, although he left the door ajar. David darted across the street, hopping up the steps and barging in so quickly the door banged against the wall. Roger stood with his back to the rest of the room, not bothering to turn around. He was messing with the something on the dresser’s surface and as he bent down to drop whatever he was holding into one of the drawers, David saw it was a small pile of bills. Something close to fifty pounds. 

“You lied to me.” David’s voice was dangerously even. “You bitch, you lied to me.” 

Roger still didn’t turn around, leaning against the dresser and watching the smoke drift up from the cigarette resting in the ashtray. “It’s your fault for not seeing what was right in front of you.” 

David hit him. It was so sudden, so forceful, that Roger stumbled backward and sunk onto the bed, turning away so that his hair hung over eyes like a curtain. David didn’t even give him a second glance, turning away and bending down to rifle through the dresser drawers. He didn’t see any drugs, but he did see a few other things: rope, a belt, strange silken fabrics, and stacks and stacks of bills. There had to be thousands and thousands of pounds there. 

He pulled out a heap of bills, and his hands shook. He waved the money in front of Roger's bent head. “Did you sell your arse for this money?” And when he didn’t get an answer, he nearly roared in frustration. He threw the money at Roger and repeated himself. “You sell your arse for this? What, this your sixth job this week?” 

“My twelfth…” Roger didn’t look up, now covering his face with his hands and heaving a shaky sigh, like he was fighting back tears. 

“Your twelfth? Jesus Christ,” David turned away. "Fuckin' whore..." 

Roger's shoulders shook. He was obviously crying now. He just sat the bed, silently weeping to himself, hunched over with his legs curled underneath him and his hair hanging in his eyes. David noticed his hands then, those slender fingers and those fingernails. 

“Did you lacquer your nails?” 

Roger still didn’t say anything but, moving slowly and nervously, he removed one hand from his face and held it out, palm down. The color was so dark, it was almost black almost. He'd had painted his nails a deep, oxblood color. It only made David angry for some odd reason. Angry and a little repulsed. Roger looked up at him then, and it just got stranger. His tears, running down his face, looked black. 

“Are you wearing makeup?” 

“Just mascara.” He glanced down quickly. “...and eyeliner.” 

David got his second premonition of sorts then, and much like he’d gone running across the street and behind the tree, he went running to the bathroom, flicking on the light and yanking open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Nothing, empty. Squatting down, he opened the cupboard underneath the sink, not even surprised to have to rummage past a few candle stubs and burnt spoons. He should’ve known; it was only a matter of time before the serious coke addicts moved onto the stronger stuff. He’d bet his life that Roger’s left forearm was dotted with pinprick scars.   
Candle stubs, spoons, a few old needles, matches, condoms, bottles of lube, nail files, and then exactly what he was looking for. 

“Just mascara and eyeliner?” David dumped his armful of goods on the bed for both he and Roger to look at. Mascara, liquid eyeliner, foundation, concealer, blush, five eyeshadow palettes, six shades of lipstick. Brushes, blenders, powder, lip liner, false eyelashes. Even a few small bottles of perfume. Anything and everything you could imagine. All hidden away in the cupboard in the bathroom. Roger’s bathroom. “So where’ve you got the dresses hidden? Gonna find heels in the closet and panties in those drawers over there?” David pointed to the dresser. Despite how awful this situation was becoming, he managed to laugh a bit. Fragile, angry, horrified laughter. “Gonna start asking people to call you Regina now? Or Georgia?” 

“No.” Roger shook his head. “No, that’s not wha—” 

“Should’ve known, really. The great Roger Waters, a tran—” 

“I’m not a fucking tranny!” 

“Really?” David stared down at first the pile of brushes and bottles and lipstick tubes and then up at Roger, with his painted fingernails and running makeup that was leaving dirty streaks along his cheekbones. He’d seemed to compose himself a bit, sniffing and brushing his hair back off his face, looking David dead in the eyes and almost smiling. It was barely there, but it was a smile all the same. 

“Some men like it.” 

“What do you mean, ‘some men like it’?” David had to sneer, because for a moment there, he’d almost been able to forget Roger had spent the last year or so becoming a crackwhore. 

“I don’t know...some men…” Roge paused and tried to figure out how to word what he wanted to say. “Some men like the look of a woman and the feel of a man.” 

“Oh, really?” David was furious. 

“Some men like the look of a woman and the feel of a man." Roger sounded angry now. Impassioned. Like he needed to justify all this and was fighting for his life for it. "Just like some men like to spank me or some men like it when I call them ‘Daddy’ or when some men just want a blowjob because their wives have lost the edge. Or maybe they’re just curious as to what it’s like to spend a night with a man.” 

“So that’s why you wear it? Because men like it?” David didn’t even think he believed what he was hearing.

“It pulls in extra, usually. Gets me more money. And…” 

“And what?” David saw Roger hesitate, just for a second, like he was about to reveal something and then caught himself. “You were going to say something. Say it.” 

“You know, I’ve never really liked the way I look. And these days, with this job, it does a number on your confidence.” His voice cracked, malicious smile dropping away from his face, his eyes welling up again. “And—” He put a hand over his mouth, stifling a sob. “—I just wanted to be pretty.” 

“‘Pretty’?” David was angry again. He could also see a dark purple bruise on Roger’s wrist where the sleeve of his robe had once covered. “Pretty? You’re not pretty, Rog, you’re disgusting. You know that?” 

Roger didn’t say anything, and he barely flinched when David slapped him a second time. There was something about it, the way being hit in such a way didn’t startle him or phase him. He didn’t gasp or cry out or duck away. He just took it with gritted teeth, looking down and away, tears dropping silently onto the bedsheets. And David knew then that this—this sort of violence—was something he was used to. He was used to being slapped and hit and beaten. He was used to violence and slurs and downright mistreatment. He was used to being used. He was used to being an object, not a person. 

“I thought…” A sob heaved in his chest, but Roger shook his head, determined to push through. “I thought you were different than the rest of them. The ones who just want to fuck, the ones who don’t give a fuck if they hit me and slap me, call me a ‘fag’. Thought you cared.” 

“Twelve men! Probably more, if you had two of them just now. Forget the drugs, forget that you lied to me, it’s this—” David looked around the room, gesturing to the makeup, the rumpled bedsheets, the revealing robe Roger was wearing. “—I can’t deal with. It’s you selling yourself, selling your body, your dignity. And you can't even expect me to care, not with how you treated me for the past two years.” 

Roger was still looking down, sniffling and wiping his eyes, pale hands now smeared with mascara, painted nails only making it all more noticeable. It wasn’t much of a comeback, Roger could always pick it all up off the floor, but David made sure to push the makeup off the bed, the jars and cases and brushes scattered around his feet. He turned away then, pulling his jacket around him with one hand already on the door handle. He couldn’t see Roger, but he could hear him begin to cry again and it was with almost of sick twist of satisfaction, David felt himself smile and say,

“You’re not pretty, Rog. You’re a fucking slut.” And with that, he stepped out into the April night and slammed the door behind him. 

Roger didn’t move for a good five minutes, sniffling a bit and eventually unfolding his legs to get off the bed. Bending down, he started to pick up the various lipstick tubes, blending brushes, and eyeliner pencils that lay in a pile on the floor. He wasn’t crying as hard as he had been, but a few tears managed to escape, which he wiped away quickly. 

Walking to the bathroom, he just stood in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at his own sallow, sunken reflection. His sooty face with dirty tear tracks and a faint red handprint still visible against his skin. Turning on the tap, he splashed warm water over his face until most of the makeup was gone and when that was finished, he wiped away the water with a towel. He wasn’t pretty, he knew that, but he could fix a few things if he tried hard enough. It wasn’t even for another man; he didn’t have any other clients this evening. It was for himself, his wasted, abused, beaten self. 

He turned the tap on in the bathtub, getting the water to run warm as he took off his robe. Then he got a cup from underneath the sink and filled it with water, taking sip after and sip and then spitting. He had no urge to remember the two men he'd been with before David showed up, let alone still taste them. It didn't work like he'd hoped, and with trembling hands, he shoved two fingers down his throat and bent over the toilet. Nothing but a few watery strings of bile came up. 

He cried out at how hot the water was. It burned and he forced himself to sit down in it. God, it fucking hurt. God, he fucking deserved it. There was a cluster of bruises on his ribs and hips and he knew tomorrow he'd be too sore to walk. He could still hear them, calling him names and pulling his hair and goddammit, if he didn't pretend it was the greatest fuck of his life they could've killed him. Roger began to cry, real tears this time, sobbing until he couldn't breathe, until he began hiccupping and choking, until he leaned over and tried to vomit onto the bathroom tile. Except he hadn't eaten in days and it only burned his throat as spit leaked from his mouth. 

He slid down and put his head under the water, wanting to drown. David's voice rang in his ears and he screamed, sound hitting the water as it rushed up his nose and down his throat. Clawing at nothing, he sat up, wet hair over his face, as he gasped and tried to get air back in his lungs. His head throbbed, and he hoped to God he wouldn't pass out. 

After he'd sat in the tub for a bit, he got out and toweled off. He dug through the dresser until he found a pair of genuine pajama bottoms. They were loose on his hips, for he was simply too thin, but at least they were pants made for men. David would've liked that. Roger grinned, thinking of how David would react if he ever saw him with a full face and nice dress. These days, he rarely felt pretty or sexy or confident. He never had, but these days, when he was slapped and manhandled and fucked so brutally it often crossed over to near-rape, it was impossible to even like himself. But that was what the makeup hid. It hid the exhaustion, the decay, the hurt. But he took it. He took the pain, the regret, the bruises left on his skin the morning after. Because taking it meant money and money meant drugs. Drugs he needed. 

Roger opened the top drawer of the dresser and after digging through a small pile of clothes, he found what he was looking for: a zippered, black nail file kit. Except it didn’t have clippers or scissors or tweezers. It had a spoon, a lighter, a tourniquet, and a few syringes. Tossing the kit on the bed, Roger moved to the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets and pulling out a coffee tin. Inside was a small bag of cotton balls, a few tea candles, and small packets of white powder. Heroin. 

From then on, it was easy, Roger sitting on the bedroom floor with his kit spread out around him. Heating water in the spoon over the candle’s flame, mixing in the powder, dipping a cotton ball into the solution and sucking it up in the syringe, yanking the tourniquet tight with his teeth, and then finding the vein and pushing the plunger down. Sighing and crawling up onto the bed, Roger just lay back and let the high take him away. Never mind the pain and abuse and humiliation. This was why he did what he did, why he sold his body to strange men in the dead of night. And it was worth it. 

 

The Test. 

 

It was November when David worked up the guts to see Roger again. He wasn't angry anymore. It didn't nothing to be angry. Roger didn't need any more abuse and abandonment; he needed help. David was little worried when the door wasn’t opened after knocking and waiting out on the stoop for a good twenty minutes, but there wasn’t any familiar car parked outside, so at least Roger wasn’t inside and lying dead from an overdose. David didn’t know that for sure, of course, so that was what got him driving over Roger’s actual house on the other side of town. 

There was a car parked in the driveway and while he couldn’t tell if anyone was home, the house didn’t have that deserted look to it. So there was that. David knocked on the door once or twice, prepared to wait as long as he had to. He had to talk to Roger, it was imperative. He wasn’t here for another fight, another blowjob, another shouting match, or another pile of bills out of his wallet and gone from his life. He was here to talk and that was all. 

So he was a bit startled when the front door swung open, Roger staring down at him with a neutral expression on his face. Hard to read, really, but it was clear he had makeup on, although after seeing all the shit he kept in the cupboard under the sink, it wasn’t as dramatic a look as David had been expecting. And after a quick glance at his left hand that was resting the doorframe, he was still wearing nail polish. Roger didn’t say anything and when he turned away and went back into the house, David was afraid the conversation was over and done with. But the front door was still open, an invitation inside, so he only followed. He followed Roger all the way out of the entryway, through the living room, down the main hallway, past the dining room, and into the kitchen. It wasn’t a big house, but with Carolyne gone, it felt huge. 

Roger propped himself against the kitchen counter, a cup of tea in his hands. David could see a faint lipstick stain along the rim. For a long while it was silent until David coughed and said, 

“I thought you might look a bit more…” He trailed off, staring at the mascara, blush, and eyeliner Roger was wearing. 

“Slutty?” This was said very caustically. 

Neither of them said anything for a minute, David suddenly taking great interest in the wooden floor under his shoes. He could hear the soft clink of the teacup being set down. Then the rustling of fabric and paper and the click of a lighter. A cloud of smoke billowed in front of him. Roger sighed and let his head fall back. 

“We need to talk.” David didn’t look up.

“About what?” 

“Your health and safety.” 

“I’m perfectly fine.” 

David laughed humorlessly. “You’ve started smoking again, you’ve been having unsafe sex, you’re putting so much shit into your system recently, it’s a miracle you’re not dead.” 

“I’ve been sober for three months.” Roger took another draw, crossing his arms and shrugging. 

“You’ve been sober since August?” David wasn’t sure he believed that, but he couldn’t ignore that Roger had certainly put on some weight and was no longer as sickly as he had been when they’d last seen one another. 

“And I’ve stopped working out of the flat. I’m seeing fewer clients, I’m charging them more, and if they want to see me, they either have to come here or give me their address.” 

“Great.” David let his hands fall to his sides in exasperation. “You’ve gone from a junkie to a high-class rent-boy.” 

Roger shot him a withering glance, clearly displeased with what he’d just been addressed as. “So you’re ignoring that I’m no longer on heroin or coke or that me becoming addicted to drugs was completely your fault?”

“You’re still working.” 

“I need money, I like sex.” 

“You have money.” 

Roger didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. They both knew he didn’t really have money. He’d spent it all. 

“I just want you to be safe.” David pushed ahead, still looking down at his shoes. 

“I’m using protection, aren’t I?” 

That was when David finally glanced up at Roger. Stupid Roger, with his cigarette, black clothing, and eye makeup. And when he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “People are dying, Rog. You could get sick.” 

“I’m not sick. Don’t look sick, do I? I feel fine.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean.” 

Roger rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the counter, sweeping out of the kitchen and into the living room. Lying down onto the sofa, he grabbed the day’s newspaper off the coffee table and began to read as if David wasn’t even present. 

“So you’re ignoring me now? That’s your strategy?” 

“Either you pay me and we get on with it or you leave. I’m sure you can find the front door by yourself, yes?” 

“I’m not here to…” David put his hands over his face in frustration, moving to stand in front of the couch. “Look, Rog… Roger, look at me.” 

Surprisingly enough, Roger obliged, momentarily lowering the paper and folding it, sneering at the headline: Reagan Sells Autobiography Rights for 3 Million. He then turned to look at David, those startling green eyes framed with black liner and long lashes. “You have my attention.” 

“Roger.” David crossed his arms, biting his lip and trying to summon the courage within himself to say what he wanted to say. It was a scary thing to say, but it needed to be said. It was like cancer. Wait too long and it was too late. “Roger, I want you to get tested.” 

Roger didn’t say anything for a long while, paper still folded and in his lap, his long fingers twitching against his legs, the lacquer flashing in the light. He blinked occasionally, lids fluttering and revealing the palest layer of dark eyeshadow. There was a sort of beauty there, David had to admit. A strange, confusing, almost off puting beauty, but beauty all the same. 

Finally, Roger frowned and opened his mouth like he was about to say something. “No.” David’s own mouth dropped open in shock. Granted, Roger hadn’t made the best decisions over the past year or two, but David had always considered him to be a man with a relatively good head on his shoulders. A man who, while stubborn, knew when to throw in the towel and relent to what was right, what was correct. 

“You won’t get tested?” David repeated, feeling the first stirrings of anger begin to set in. 

“No, no I won’t. I’m not sick. I’m fine.” 

“If you have nothing to worry about, then what’s the harm in going in for a test, eh?” There, David thought, see him get his way out of that one. 

“I am not going to get tested. I’ve been safe, I’ve been careful, I’ve be—” 

“Because having sex with strange men four times a day is safe and careful. And intravenous drug use...” 

“I’ve been sober for three months!” 

“That’s not how it works!” David could tell Roger was grasping at straws now. God, this was frustrating. And he knew that Roger was fully aware that he was making flimsy arguments, that what he was saying wasn’t valid. “You know what?” David raised his eyebrows, already buttoning up his coat and starting off down the hallway and towards the front door. “I, right now, am going to go to the clinic and get a test myself, alright? And you should, too.” And with that, he stormed out of the house, not once looking back. 

 

The Rain. 

 

It was more or less a relief when David tested negative for HIV/AIDS. 

No, it was a huge relief, and while it still didn’t say anything about Roger’s condition, there was a higher chance he was also negative. He and David had, after all, had more than a few occasions when such a thing could have been transmitted. David spent the next five months angry and frustrated with Roger. Realistically, his anger and frustration fizzled out by December of that year, but as it ticked over in 1986, he just sort of stopped caring. In the back of his mind, he supposed he should’ve at least cared a little bit. It was Roger’s health and safety that was on the line with this one. Between the possibilities of overdosing or rape, it was a miracle he’d made it this far. 

But then December became January and January became February and then it was nearing May until David started getting genuinely worried again. It seemed that after every fight—which was practically every time they saw each other—they needed a buffer space, a space to cool down and let it pass. And really, David was used to not seeing Roger for long periods of time, and it seemed that whenever they met again, some drastic change had occurred. That was the true source of David’s worry. It was only a matter of time before they saw one another and who knew what Roger would be like…

It was a Monday morning, and Ginger had left shortly after ten. David had no idea where’d she’d gone, but it was probably the usual. Shopping, the bank, maybe an art supply store across town. He didn’t really care. It had been cloudy and eventually, it started to rain. There wasn’t any thunder or lighting, just a dreary sky and steady patter of raindrops against the roof. The sound was so constant and methodical that David almost missed the quiet knock on the front door. He’d been in the kitchen with a cup of tea and the newspaper—Chernobyl Explosion Kills Thirty-One—and while he hadn’t had the radio on, the rain was music enough. Between the rustle of the newspaper and the drizzle beating against the windows, he heard it: a faint, timid knocking. Setting the paper and tea down and, not really thinking of it, he went to answer the door. 

The figure on the front stoop was wearing a jacket, hood pulled up and shadowing their face. But David immediately recognized the posture, the height, the almost shy way the figure stood. There was no mistaking it was Roger. 

David was about to say something, rather confused and startled at the scene before him, for Roger hadn’t said anything or lifted his head. It was unsettling, the unresponsive, still way he stood there. David had his mouth open, a ‘hello’ already forming in his throat. Then Roger pushed the hood back, looking up with the rain hitting his face and turning his pale skin glossy and glistening. He pulled David out of the doorway and onto the steps, grabbing onto him, holding his waist and back. He crushed their mouths together, kissing him, as the rain soaked their clothes and hair. And he didn’t let go, just kissing and kissing and kissing. 

It wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t tender, it wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t loving. The way he clung to David, kissing him so roughly and desperately, holding him so tightly and fearfully. He didn’t let go and he didn’t stop kissing, and through the noise around them, the noise of their own lips, the chill of the rain, the way it made their skin wet and slippery, David realized he was crying. He pulled away, his hair hanging around his face in dripping tendrils. His eyes were red and his lips were chapped and through the tears and the rain, his makeup had begun to run. And what it revealed terrified David. 

 

“There you go...S’alright…” David was holding Roger’s wet hair back as he heaved into the toilet bowl. “Shhh…it’s okay…” 

Roger didn’t say anything, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and finally lifting his head, looking not green—like many did before or after throwing up—but an odd gray color. There was nasty bruise on his cheek, yellow and sickly at the edges, and his lip was split. He'd been beaten. He looked exhausted and not just tired. Exhausted. The makeup had covered most of it—the sunken, hollow, withered appearance—but the rain had washed most of it off, tracks of eyeshadow, liner, and mascara dripping over his cheekbones. His lipstick was smeared, too, a few streaks of red smudged below his bottom lip. 

He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes still had a watery quality to them as he stared at David in a frightened, pathetic way. He looked like he wanted to say something, but maybe just the quiver in his lip was from all the tears. David stood, taking Roger’s hand and helping him up. “C’mon, sit down…” David led him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, getting him to sit on the bed. “I’ll get you some water, alright?” 

Leaving Roger where he was, David ran downstairs and filled a glass with water. He ran back upstairs, handed Roger the glass and then got two towels, a pair of sweatpants, and a loose black shirt. 

“Here…” David started helping Roger get out of his damp jacket and shirt before handing him the change of clothes. “Put these on. I trust you can take your pants off?” 

“Thanks.” Roger sniffled and wiped his nose, taking another sip of water and pulling on the shirt and pants. He felt awful, coming over unannounced, surprising David, snogging him, and then rushing into the house to vomit. That happened a lot these days. 

“Oh, Rog…” There was something tender, sad, and very genuine about David’s tone. “You poor thing. Here, let me…” He had one of the towels now, a hand towel, gently wiping Roger’s makeup off. Over his lips and chin, around his eyes, cheekbones, and nose. In actuality he was surprised Roger hadn't pushed him away. “Now.” David sat down on the bed next to him, wrapping the larger towel around his shoulders to catch the water still in his hair. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” 

Roger looked down at his hands and then said very quietly, “I’m on heroin again.” 

“You’re what? I thought you said you were sober.”

“I was for a while.” Roger’s voice was getting choked up. There were fresh tears brimming on his lashes, spilling over and running down his face. “And then,” he paused the way people did mid-sentence when they were trying not to cry. “I had a really hard night a few weeks ago and I just thought one dose of smack wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Oh my god…” David couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How stupid could Roger be? 

“I told myself not to, but then I was opening a new bag, because, you know, and I guess—” He stopped suddenly, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. 

“How do you feel right now?” David wasn’t even aware that he’d started absentmindedly rubbing Roger’s back. He didn't expect an answer, and for a split second, Roger tried to hold it together. Then he burst into tears and buried his face in David's shoulder. They sat this way for a long time, in the bleak bedroom with the rain hitting the windows. Roger clung to David's shirt, and David reached up to gently stroke his hair. Eventually, his sobs quieted, and David got him to look up with tired, red-rimmed eyes. "How about you lay down for a while, huh?" David knew he was beginning to crash, the fall after a strong high. And while he knew this shouldn’t be the end of their conversation—and it wasn’t over, he certainly wouldn’t allow that—he figured there was no sense in keeping Roger awake. Hell, he was so exhausted, he probably could’ve fallen asleep standing up. David slid the towel off Roger’s shoulders and pulled back the bed covers. It wasn’t the cleanest set-up, what with all the vomit, dirty rainwater, and makeup, but he just looked so tired and sad. 

His answer was a lazy noise of agreement, Roger already falling asleep right where he was, so David gently lowered him onto the bed, pulling the sheets up over him. Roger curled up and closed his eyes, unwashed hair sticking to his gray, sunken-in face, his eyes closed, lids smudged with makeup that hadn’t been successfully wiped off. And David, with a very sinister and worried feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, stepped out of the room and quietly closed the bedroom door. 

It was nearing one in the afternoon, three hours into Roger’s nap, that David heard the front door open and slam with a bang. The rain had picked up and when Ginger walked into the kitchen, her hair looked soaked and her face pale from the chill outside. She dumped her shopping bags on the kitchen counter, glaring at David. 

“Could’ve helped, thanks.” 

“Roger’s here.” That was all he said, still sipping his tea and staring down at the paper. Ginger froze, her eyes widening. Roger had always put her off, and David knew that. That’s why he’d said it. 

“He’s what?”

“Roger’s here.” 

“Why?” Ginger’s eyes grew even wider. “Where? Look, I don’t want to know, I don’t care.” She was buttoning up her coat again. “You know he makes me uncomfortable and if he’s here, I won’t be. I’ve already gone to the post and the grocery store, but I’ve been wanting to check out the sale at Debenhams downtown.” She pulled her knit hat on tighter, blonde curls framing her face: pouty lips, pert nose, round blue eyes. “I’ll be back within three hours and I expect him to be gone by then.” 

And with that, she swept out of the kitchen, stomping down the hallway and slamming the front door closed. David didn’t move for a good five minutes, simply sitting there and thinking about going up to check on Roger when the very man himself appeared in the doorway. He looked almost worse than before, except now he had his original clothes back on and he was digging around in his jacket pocket, pulling out his car keys. 

“Hey, you’re awake.” David was both relieved and worried. It was like he was in the presence of an entirely different person. “Why’ve you your keys? You’re feeling better, I hope?”

“I’m off.” Roger gave him a tired smile, with his sallow skin and the gray shadows under and around his eyes. It was liked he'd never come in and had a complete breakdown and then slept in David and Ginger's bed. He kept digging around in his pockets until he found his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shook one out and lit it. 

“What? You’re leaving?” David set the paper down and slid off the chair, standing with his arms folded. “You can’t leave just yet, we need to talk.” 

“No.” Roger shot him a look. “We don’t.” 

“Where are you going?” David didn’t even try to stop Roger as he turned and started off down the hallway. “Roger, where are you going? Don’t you walk away from me!” 

“Back to the flat."

“Why?” 

“Drugs to take. Men to fuck.” Roger reached for the door handle when David suddenly rushed in front of him, throwing himself in the way. 

“No! You can’t leave! And would you put that out? This isn’t safe, you’re not safe, I’m worried, I’m angry, I’m—” 

“Don’t you tell me what to do.” Roger’s voice had lowered to a growl around the filter of his cigarette. “I’m gonna do what I want and you’re not going to stop me, bastard.” 

God, even as a junkie, he was just as stubborn as usual. “I will not let you leave this house.” Pressed between the wooden frame and Roger’s own body, David twisted around to turn the two locks above the door handle. And then there were two hands on his waist, lacquered fingernails slipping up under the hem of his shirt. Hot breath by his ear, laced with the smell of smoke, growl replaced with something more sultry, more sensual, coercing. 

“How about I do whatever you want for as long as you want? Free of charge. Then will you let me go?” 

David froze, those fingers now moving to the button on the front of his jeans. “Rog...we can’t do this. It’s not right.” 

“Even if you don’t pay me?” His voice was still that low purring whisper. “‘Cause that seems less right than this. Me up your ass for fifty pounds and all…” 

David knew he'd crumble and fucking give in. And he didn’t want that, didn’t want Roger taking advantage of him and then leaving, presumably to shoot up again and then make himself pretty for another night of men. “No…” But his tone had lost that edge. 

“S’this what you want?” Roger slowly turned him around so that their chests were flush up against one another. His fingers pushed past the band of David’s underwear. Taking a long pull off his cigarette, he kissed David, blew the smoke down his throat. Then he added his tongue and David groaned, before stepping back. 

“Roger, stop…” David turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and trying not to give in to how he was truly feeling. “S’not okay.” 

Roger made a face, withdrawing his hand. “Fine. I’ll find someone else then. Another man who’d be happy to have me. I’d suck his cock and let him bend me over and—” 

“Roger, please! Just…” David grabbed Roger’s arm, tugging him down the hallway and into the dining room. He shoved him down over the table, pulling his pants around his ankles. Undoing his own fly, pushing away his underwear, making sure to slap Roger on the ass once or twice. They did it without lube or condoms, a thing that hurt like hell. It wasn’t sexy or tender or romantic or loving. It was rough and desperate and almost abusive. It was vengeful and angry and act performed out of frustration and fear. 

And when they were finished, Roger pulled on his pants and jacket, gave David a kiss on the cheek, and walked right out the front door. He didn’t look back, lifting his hood again and getting into his car and driving off. Because while he should’ve felt exhausted and maybe even a little used, he didn’t. He felt satisfied. 

It took Ginger almost three weeks to realize something was missing. In the top drawer of their bedroom dresser, hidden behind a pile of panties, was a soft cardboard box, the kind some used for storing pantyhose or condoms or spare spools of thread and needles and thimbles. Ginger used hers for rainy day money. 

“David!” Even from all the way downstairs, as he sat on the couch with a guitar in his lap, he could hear the note of hysterics in her voice. “David! Come look at this!” 

“What?” He didn’t move from the couch, but he did set his guitar down. 

“Just come here! Please!” 

Okay, now he was, hopping up the steps two at a time and running into the bedroom. There was something about how she sounded so panicked that worried him. 

“It’s all gone!” She was standing by the dresser, it’s top drawer open and underwear scattered about on the floor. “All of it!” She held up the box, the lid open and insides empty. “I had almost five hundred pounds in here!” David didn’t say anything, taking the box and peering inside as though checking its contents a second time would magically make the money reappear. “You think we’ve been robbed?” The fear in her tone wasn’t receding at all; it just kept climbing. “I mean, who breaks into a house and steals just this? And it could’ve been hidden better, but it’s not like I kept it out in the open on a table or anything. Oh, God, David…” 

And then David knew. He knew what was going on. They hadn’t been robbed. At least not in the way Ginger was implying. The robber hadn’t broken a window or busted the lock on the front door. He just walked right and taken what he wanted, with none the wiser. 

No wonder it had been free of charge. 

 

The Door. 

 

It was almost eleven at night when David’s car pulled up in front of the flat. He’d left late on purpose, knowing he’d have a higher chance of actually getting to talk to Roger then. During the day, the flat was dead. During the night, it wasn’t. 

Roger’s car was parked outside and there was a light on inside. David could see it coming from behind the curtains over the window. He knocked once or twice on the front door, feeling somewhere between very angry—five hundred pounds had been stolen, after all—and anxious, his palms becoming rather sweaty, causing him to wipe his hands on his pants. After five minutes, there still wasn’t any answer, so he knocked again, louder this time, trying to ignore the worry that was beginning to creep in. And still, there wasn’t answer. 

“Roger.” David slammed a fist on the dark wood, shaking the door handle. “Roger! I know you’re in there! Open up!” Okay, now he was really starting to worry. Granted, if he’d heard his own voice yelling like that, he probably wouldn’t have opened the door, either, but this felt different. This felt like he wasn’t getting an answer not because Roger didn’t want to answer, but because he couldn’t answer. “Roger!” David tried to body slam the door then, but it didn’t budge, only sending pain down his right shoulder. “Roger, please!” 

_Harder. Hit the door again. Harder. Really hard this time. Give it everything you’ve got; he could be dead._ And that was what finally got the door open, David throwing his entire weight against its frame. He heard a faint crack, and after trying once more, a louder crack, the sound of wood breaking. _Alright, one more._

The loudest crack of them all and the door swung open and hit the wall with a bang. David ran inside, only to find the room empty. The bathroom light was on, and that was where he went next, checking the bathtub, just in case. There were a few brushes and lipstick tubes scattered about on the sink, but that was about it. The bed sheets were rumpled, and David imagined the bed itself had been recently used. The dresser’s surface was littered with a few bills, a spoon, and a bag of cotton balls, but that was it. 

The kitchen. He hadn’t checked the kitchen. He was running again, maneuvering around the bed and—

And there was Roger, lying on his back with his eyes rolled up in his head. His lips looked almost black and his skin was a bluish color. He didn’t even appear to be breathing, unresponsive and...dead. 

David screamed, dropping to his knees and running a hand over Roger’s face, gently smacking him and then not so gently hitting him. He checked for a pulse next, and thank God there was something there, but he didn’t like how it was faint and weak, with long pauses in between beats. He was still alive. Barely. At first, David was afraid there was no phone. He’d never called the flat, always the house, but he vaguely remembered seeing one, mounted to a wall. And there it was, in one dingy corner of the kitchen. It looked like it hadn’t been used in ages, neglected and ignored, but it was there, and David was leaping to his feet, grabbing it, and dialing as quickly as possible. He wasn’t even aware he’d started crying until he actually had to speak, choking out the words to the dispatcher and trying not to glance at Roger, sprawled out on the floor, limp and dead to the world. 

An ambulance pulled up outside, with blaring sirens and flashing lights, medics running the door. There was a stretcher, the smell of antiseptic, David screaming and crying and being pushed out of the way. And as quickly as the ambulance had arrived, it was gone, shooting off down the street with its lights and its sirens slowly fading into the night and taking Roger with it. 

 

The Month. 

 

Roger opened his eyes. 

But that just made everything slide to the left a little, like the image in front of him was sloshing about instead of standing still. His head hurt, too, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. So he closed his eyes, took a shaky breath—it felt like there was plastic in his mouth—and fell right back into sleep. 

When he woke a second time, his head didn’t hurt nearly as bad and what he assumed had been a respirator was long gone, leaving him aware of just how dry his mouth was. It was all very disorienting, really. A pillow under his head, humming and beeping noises, the sounds of people walking past, the faint ding of an elevator, white linoleum, bright lighting. A hospital. He was in a hospital. 

All he remembered was being in the flat, taking out his kit, sticking the needle in and…after that, it all went to black, like he couldn’t remember what had happened. 

_I overdosed, didn’t I?_

_Yes, Rog, yes you did. Finally caught up with you, eh?_

There was a window on the far side of the room, looking out into the hallway. Nurses and doctors rushed past, some running and others not bothering to look up, staring down at the papers and folders in their hands. There was a nurse pushing a patient in a wheelchair and another staff member pushing a metal cart full of flowers. It was a whole other world out there, one oblivious to the small world inside Roger’s room. 

Something was happening then, outside his window, four people coming into view and standing in the hallway, not bothering to look and see Roger lying there, awake and watching what was unfolding. A doctor, Nick, Rick, and David. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but yes, all three of them were there, listening to what was being said to them, the doctor reading off a paper he was holding. But as he kept reading—Roger could only see his lips move—the other three seemed to become very grave, their expressions darkening and hardening. Then the doctor put the paper back in his folder and look directly at them when he spoke and it seemed like he was choosing his words very carefully. 

Nick had always been one to take things in stride, even if he was shaken up internally. He was always the steady one in midst of turmoil, the rock, the one with the clear head who could level everyone else out when they couldn't fucking get it together. But now, as the doctor kept talking, Roger saw him finally crack, saw something shift in the way he held himself, saw something the looks of horror spread across his face. And Rick, poor Rick, who’d never really gotten along with Roger, had a hand over his mouth, looking alarmingly pale, the very beginnings of tears welling up in his eyes. But then, the doctor said one final thing, something that seemed to break David, who put his hands over his face. And then he was starting to shout, lunging forward, Nick and Rick grabbing him and trying to restrain him. He seemed hysterical, thrashing and kicking his feet, hair falling in front of his eyes, tears spilling down his face. He screamed, but it was unintelligible. Roger thought he'd never heard such pain. And it broke his heart. 

 

About an hour later, the hospital door opened, Nick, Rick and the doctor walking into the room. David wasn’t among them. Roger had watched as he’d eventually just given in to the hysterics, becoming limp and passive and just sobbing, the other two leading him away and out of the view of the window. Roger had just laid there then, staring up at the ceiling and willing himself not to cry. When the three returned, he wasn’t really surprised David wasn’t with them. 

He managed to sit up, aware of the hospital gown he was wearing—what a humiliating thing to be forced into—and the IV in his arm and the tag around his wrist. There was a bruise there, one so dark it almost matched the nail lacquer on his fingers, but the tag did little to cover it. He instinctively put his other hand over his wrist. Then the doctor began speaking to him, Nick and Rick standing a few feet away. Nick, bless him, seemed his usual self, expression softening into something reassuring and calm, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. Rick was staring though, his eyes drifting the smudged makeup around Roger’s eyes to his fingernails to the bruises on his arms and hands. It was the sort of staring Roger was used to, something swaying between curiosity and judgment and disgust. 

And the doctor was saying things, words that seemed scrambled about in Roger’s brain yet seemed to come together to make a complete and logical picture. He’d overdosed, David had found him close to death, he’d been brought to the hospital and luckily, they’d managed to save his life. 

“There is one more thing.” The doctor closed his folder and adopted the same posture he had before when he’d said whatever had set David off. “Mr. Waters…” He looked Roger right in the eyes. “You’ve tested positive for HIV.”

Roger saw Nick swallow heavily and Rick look down at his shoes. “I what?” 

“You’ve tested positive for HIV,” he repeated. “We ran the blood tests multiple times, and frankly, we can’t even believe you’re alive. Your T-cell count is at about seven. Most healthy people have between five hundred and fifteen hundred. It’s a miracle you’re not dead right now. And because your count is at seven, you’ve long progressed out of what we would consider purely HIV. You have AIDS, Mr. Waters.” 

“I what?” Roger said again. 

“Without treatment, it often takes years for such a thing to reach the stage of AIDS, but under circumstances where the body’s immune system is compromised, the process can be sped up. Genetics play a role, too, but most of it is external. Poor health, extreme stress, drug use. Anything that puts strain on the body. And there is no easy way to say this, but…” The doctor—Roger couldn’t see the words printed on his name tag—glanced down and up again, speaking quietly and seriously. “We estimate you have thirty days to live.” 

He didn’t say anything after that, turning and leaving Roger alone with Nick and Rick, standing there, watching him. 

He was surprised, but not in the way one would assume. Not shocked and horrified that his clock was ticking faster than ever and that his time was running out. Because, in a way, he’d sort of expected it. He’d known he was sick. In the back of his mind, he’d known for a while now, he’d just ignored it. Really, he’d thought the drugs would’ve gotten to him first. What surprised him was how he took the news, not at all caught off guard when the doctor had told him the news. It seemed almost natural, really. He’d put his life on the line and this is what happened. He’d made the bed and now he had to lie in it. And he could deal with that. 

 

The Petrol Station and the Alleyway. 

 

“Hey…” David slowly pushed open the door and edged into the room. Roger glanced up and actually managed to smile. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Roger shook his head. He hadn’t really been doing anything but sitting there and thinking. It was almost seven o’clock in the evening. Pretty soon, Day Thirty would be over. And then it’d be on to Day Twenty-Nine. “Can I sit down?” David was about to pull up a chair by the bedside when Roger shook his head. 

“Sit here.” He patted the space at the end of the bed. 

David did as he was told, kicking off his shoes and crawling up onto the bed at Roger’s feet, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees with his chin in his palms. “How are you feeling?”

Roger sighed. “I have a headache and I can’t concentrate.” 

“It’s a lot to think about.” 

“I think it’s just withdrawal. They’re not gonna give me anything here.” He glanced around the room, with it’s IV pole and it’s bright lighting and smell of disinfectant. “It’ll be over soon, in about a week. And then—” He heaved a huge sigh. “I’ll have three weeks left.” 

“We can get you meds, you know. Strong stuff. It probably won’t have you living till you’re ninety, but it’ll add some time.” Roger didn’t say anything, staring down at his withered hands. He’d seen the preliminary sheet the doctor had given him. 190 centimeters tall and only eight stone. He was starting to look skeletal. And that wasn’t even the drugs doing. That was part of his ‘condition’. Wasting disease. “Roger?” David gently slipped a hand under Roger’s chin, tilting his head up. “Roger, are you listening to me? We can get you meds. Don’t worry about the money, we’ve agreed to pay for it.” 

“Do they know?” Roger finally said something. 

“Know what?” 

“About...you know…” he sighed, closing his eyes. It was easier to say things if those piercing blue eyes weren’t boring into his own green ones. With his eyes shut, he gestured to his face, with it’s eyeliner and mascara. “About the flat, about how I’ve been…” 

“No!” David shook his head even though Roger couldn’t see him. “No, not at all. I didn’t say anything to them. I mean, they know about the drugs and about your condition—” There was that word again: ‘condition’. “—and I’m sure they have questions, but they’ll only get answers if you want to tell them.”

“Are you mad?” Roger opened his eyes, adopting a very worried look on his face. 

“About what?” David frowned. 

“The money.” 

“Yes.” He nodded, brushing his hair back. “Well, I was and I guess I still am, in a way. But, right now, at this moment in time, I’m not. Right now, I’m not mad. It wasn’t okay to steal all that money, Rog, I think you know that. But at this point, with how things are, it wouldn’t do me any good to be mad with you.” 

“You want to know why I got on heroin in the first place? The things I’ve seen, Dave. The things I’ve experienced, you wouldn’t even believe me if I told you.” This was said so suddenly and out of the blue that David somehow got the impression that Roger had been wanting to talk about such a thing for a very long time. It felt repressed, the way he’d said that. Repressed and finally ready to just pour out. And David didn’t even have to say anything; all he did was let Roger begin speaking. 

 

_1984:_

_The petrol station is pretty lit up for it being close to one in the morning. There’s no one around, at least not out in plain sight. He knows where to find them though, hidden away and in the shadows. It’s just rained and his boots and the hems of his jeans are speckled with mud as he walks through the gravel, grass, and puddles to get behind the building. And there they are, three men with bottles of beer and cigarettes between their lips. They look pretty uptight, too, business types. Certainly not the kind you’d find behind a petrol station in the middle of the night, but just like him, they know how to find what they’re looking for. All they have to do is wait._

_They all turn when Roger approaches them, and he has to admit, he might look a bit menacing, with all his black clothing and determined expression. But they know him, not personally, but they know his type. He’s what they wait around for._

_“You can do whatever you want to me for thirty pounds.” That’s all Roger says._

_“Thirty each?” The one man eyes him with something close to hunger, looking up and down his body._

_“No. Just ten each, between the three of you.”_

_They all look at one another, trading glances, but Roger can tell they’ve already made up their minds. “Okay then,” the second one says, nodding his head and stamping his cigarette out against the side of the building. “Good enough for us, luv.”_

_They push him down the length of the building and to a door with a sign indicating that it’s a bathroom. The door’s opening and closing, the light's flicked on, the three of them all forming a half circle around him, eyeing him like he’s prey to the hunters. Then he’s turned around, bent over, and slammed against the lip of the sink so hard the wind is knocked out of his lungs. He’s staring right at a grimy mirror, one that shows what the coke is doing to him, how it’s tearing him down, bit by bit._

_There are hands all over him now, reaching around and slipping past the waistband of his underwear. It’s awful, every part of it is, but he remembers what to do, what works, what gets him through jobs like these, when he doesn’t get enough clients and has to go scour London to find work and money. If he can just close his eyes, maybe he can pretend it isn’t happening…_

_1985:_

_He’s long since left the days of lurking behind petrol stations and inside car parks. That doesn’t make enough money anymore. He’s started working Piccadilly-Soho instead. Sometimes it’s hanging about in bars, the ones that support his type. A world where people see you wearing heels, a dress, and makeup and don’t approach you to call you a fag but because they know your line of work._

_He’s just had a client, a cute bartender who’d taken him upstairs, locked the door, and dropped to knees right then and there. It isn’t very often people actually bothered to please him these days. It’s all take and no give. He’s expected to suck cock and take a dick up the ass and that’s it. He isn’t a person; he’s an object. Something to be used and fucked and hurt. He’s just another toy to play with._

_He’s walking past more bars, side streets, strip clubs. It’s a pretty warm night, too, one that doesn’t require him to wear a jacket, to let all the world see that he’s wearing heels, a short little number of a black dress, and that he’s got makeup on. But here, here it won’t get him any strange, sneering looks. It’ll just bring him money, money he’s got nicely tucked away in his black evening clutch. He passes a particularly loud bar now, one that’s got only men crowded around its entrance. A few let him slip through, but not without a bit of whistling, cat-calling, and either a hand brushing along his thigh—the dress’ hem stops well above his knees—or a slap on the ass. That’s okay, though. He’s used to it. It bothers him slightly, yes, but not as much as would have in years past. Then again, a few years ago he wouldn’t have been wandering about Soho at close to two in the morning wearing heels and garters, but all the same…_

_He keeps walking, the crowd around the bar slowly filtering out, with a few men still standing around, watching him pass, and he can tell they’re staring at him from behind. He knows that’s what happens if you make sure to swing your hips when you walk. He’s passing an alleyway now, with two men standing by it, smoking and talking quietly. They watch him as he continues down the street, their eyes following his figure, but he doesn’t give them even a glance, staring straight ahead from under his long lashes and throwing his hair over his shoulder with one well-manicured hand._

_Then he feels a hand on his arm, tightening just enough to be controlling yet natural-looking to anyone who might see them. One man is on his left, the other on his right. It’s the one on his left who’s got his arm and the one on the right slides a hand down his back, to the base of his spine, cupping his ass. Then there’s a smooth voice right by his ear._

_“Well, hello there, beautiful.”_

_Roger doesn’t shift his gaze from straight ahead. “What do you want?” His only response is a very wolfish, quiet laugh, the hand on his ass squeezing slightly._

_“Come with us, alright?”_

_Roger shakes his head and tries to throw the both of them off. He’s pretty strong and he doesn’t like the way they’re touching him. Even though he’s used to being felt up—it comes with the job—this is different somehow. More predatory, violating. But they’re just as strong as he is, if not stronger, and the next thing he knows, he’s being shoved into one of the many alleys they keep passing. They’re all over him now, slamming him against the brick wall, touching him, feeling him through the fabric of his dress. He’s taller than them by a long shot with the heels on, but there are two of them. He’d dropped his clutch, but it’s kicked away by the man on his left, whose fingers are messing with his garters and stockings._

_“Stop it!” Roger’s voice finally starts working. “Stop it!” He’s starting to thrash about now, trying to kick at them with his heels, something he’s sure will hurt like hell if he can land a good shot. But the one on his right has removed his hand, a hand that had been slipped under the back of Roger’s dress, reaching into his back pocket and—_

_Then there’s a switchblade pressed to Roger’s throat, making him tilt his head up and immediately stop screaming, the words snatched from his lungs, whether it be from fear or shock. Probably both._

_“Shhh….” The one on the left, the one with the wolfish laugh, is stroking his face now. “Wouldn’t want to hurt you, now would we? ‘Cause you are such a pretty thing…”_

_“What a beauty you are, eh?” The one on the right, the one with the switchblade, turns to Wolf. “You wanna go first?”_

_Wolf just licks his lips. “Sure. Why not? Now…” He moves in to hiss against the shell of Roger’s ear. “You, love, are gonna do whatever we say. Otherwise…” Roger can feel Switchblade press the knife against his throat. “Okay?”_

_Roger doesn’t say anything as he’s wrenched from the wall and shoved to his knees, Wolf taking his place, messing with his fly, and bracing himself against the bricks. Switchblade keeps quiet, and he does remove the knife, stepping back and snatching the clutch bag up off the alleyway’s pavement. Popping it open, he rifles through it, grinning._

_“Three hundred pounds. Whew.” He gives a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money.”_

_“Three hundred pounds?” Wolf, one hand still on his fly, takes hold of Roger’s chin, tilting his face up. A hand wraps around Roger's throat and squeezes. “You that good? Worth three hundred pounds?” He gives Roger’s cheek a few quick, light smacks._

_Roger can feel Switchblade’s hands twisting through his hair, tugging his head back. Then Wolf is pushing his pants and underwear away. He slips two fingers between Roger’s rich, red-painted lips, getting him to suck and lick and bob his head. And then it’s not his lips, it’s his cock, and Roger’s hair is being yanked even harder. And it’s awful because he instinctively responds, relaxing his throat and bringing his hands up to pump whatever his mouth can’t take. He’s crying now, too, tears sliding down his cheeks and making his mascara run. But they’re silent tears, and he shuts his eyes, trying to detach himself from what’s happening._

_Wolf finishes, moaning, fingers clawing at the brick wall behind him. Roger just swallows and pulls back, sitting down and feeling Switchblade let go of his hair. He wipes first his mouth and then his eyes with the back of his hand, taking a shaky breath and trying to compose himself for another round. Because he knows it’s not over. If he thought the first act was bad…_

_So he just takes it, takes it as Switchblade yanks him to his feet, slams him chest first into the wall, pins his hands over his head. Takes it as his garters and stockings are ripped down and his dress ripped up. Takes as he’s fucked up the ass. Takes the torture, because, oh god, it hurts so bad. Takes it as a hand is clamped over his mouth to muffle his sobs and cries of pain. Then it’s over, Switchblade pulling out, slapping him across the ass a few times and pulling his dress down roughly. Wolf is laughing, picking up the clutch and opening it, grinning down at the bills inside. Then Roger’s being flipped around and smacked across the face, that low, wolfish voice murmuring in ear again._

_“You deserved it, you little slut.”_

_He feels a knee slamming into his crotch, the whole world flickering at the edges, a strangled sob escaping him. And after closing his eyes and opening them again, Wolf and Switchblade are gone, taking with them so much more than just the money._

_Roger starts crying then. He had been before, but this is different, as he slides down the brick wall to sit on the hard pavement with his dress all uneven and his heels scuffed, his knees almost pulled up to his chest. He isn’t even sobbing anymore, just crying, crying, crying, clapping a hand over his mouth as the view of the cracked asphalt and red brick in front of him turns blurry and fractured, tears filling his eyes and streaming down his face. Maybe it’s the anger, maybe it’s the hurt, maybe it’s that he feels infected, and the next thing he knows, he’s pulling off his heels, tossing them on the ground weakly. He rips his stockings off next, letting them drop from his hand. He knows he’ll have bruises tomorrow, bruises to match the color of his nail lacquer. And he doesn’t know how he’ll get back home to the flat, either. They’ve stolen his money, so he can’t take the tube, like he’d been planning. He knows it’ll be awful to walk home, even if it’s only a few miles away. He’s sore and exhausted and in something close to agony. He knows it’s not safe to walk alone at the two in the morning, but really, what could happen? He doesn’t have money to steal and he’s just been…_

_Just thinking about what has happened gets him crying harder, and even though it hurts when he slams his fist in the pavement, no doubt skinning the side of his hand, it’s worth it. God, he just wants this to all disappear, for the world to melt away, to not feel anymore. If he could die, just to end it all, he might welcome it with open arms. A thought enters his minds then, a brief, fleeting one, but a thought all the same.  
He has a belt, back at the flat. It’s mostly used for when the heels and makeup aren't enough to get some sick fuck off, when he’s flipped over the knee and thrashed senseless. But he’s got a belt. Or maybe he’ll throw himself in front of the tube, swallow a handful of pills and wash it down with a bottle of whiskey, go home to his garage and leave the car running. _

_But no. He doesn’t want to die, not really. He just wants everything to become numb for a while. He’d thought he'd known what being numb felt like when he’d been given that dose of tranquilizer back on the Animals tour. He’d been young then. Naive. That was nothing compared to this, this small hell in some dingy Soho alleyway with the rest of world still revolving around him.  
Coke won’t do it anymore. He knows that. It won’t make him numb, it won’t take him away and out for a while. It’ll just hype him up and then leave him worse off than he was before. No, he needs something stronger. Heroin. That will work. But for now, he’s fine to sit where he is, with his scraped heels, ripped stockings, dirty dress, running makeup, bruised skin. Tomorrow he’ll hunt down his dealer and pay whatever he has to to get the stronger stuff. There is always tomorrow…_

 

The Garden

 

Roger was putting on makeup. 

David watched him, hovering in the doorway and wondering if Roger even knew he was there. He seemed focused, carefully uncapping his lipstick, twisting it up, and spreading a layer on. The stick itself looked near black, but it was more of a burgundy color. Striking and intense, those lush lips more pronounced than ever. He was pretty, David thought. 

David heard Roger give a tired sigh and watched him dab away the excess lipstick, tossing the tissue in the wastebasket and then fluffing his hair a bit, staring himself down in the mirror. Aside from the makeup and the nail lacquer, he looked the same as he always did: black clothes, boots, slightly messy hair. David had only seen Roger in a dress once or twice, and while he found it actually not that bad of a look, it had seemed to make Roger sad, like he was remembering everything that had happened to him whenever he’d worn a dress before. 

He’d been discharged from the hospital after a week, done with his withdrawal and strong enough to sustain time at home. Which was good, because he’d pointedly said he didn’t want to die in the hospital. How awful, he’d said, how embarrassing. And so David had taken him home and they gone and sat in the garden with Nick and Rick and had a long chat. Ginger hadn’t been there, not in the garden, nor in the house, nor in David’s life any longer. 

She’d swung by the hospital one afternoon to see her husband, who’d been spending a lot of time there, and as much as she’d always disliked Roger, he was sick and from what David had said, it seemed pretty bad, and if she didn’t go at least once, she’d feel guilty. So there she was, wandering about and trying to find the right room. Then she’d waltzed in on them kissing each other, let out a small shriek, screamed at David until she was hoarse, and marched right out of the hospital and his life. When he’d gotten home that night, her stuff was gone with their driveway empty, aside from his own car, of course. He’d been upset, very upset. But then he’d brought Roger home two days later and the house didn’t seem that lonely anymore. 

They’d invited Rick and Nick over the next day, the four of them sitting in the shade under one of the big oak trees at the edge of the property with glasses of iced tea to combat the May heat. Clear blue skies, a slight breeze, birds darting from tree to tree. Except the day sort of lost it’s charm when they all started talking, David and Roger moving their conversation from their affair starting way back in the seventies, Carolyne leaving, the cocaine, the money, the makeup, and eventually, the prostitution. 

Roger mentioned nothing of the petrol station or the alleyway, with good reason, but every once and awhile, he’d falter and grow quiet, David having to gently take his hand to get him to talk again.   
When he was finished, he handed his empty glass to David and walked off. He didn’t go towards the house, instead veering off into a small net of trees and disappearing. They all just sat there, Rick eventually getting up and walking back to the house without a word. Nick didn’t anything, either, the two of them sitting in silence until he, too, left David alone to his thoughts. That was fine, however, if they had nothing to say. It was a lot to process, a lot to wrap your head around. Excuse the fact that Roger was dying; it was more shocking to hear everything that had happened over the past few years than to think about what was going to happen in the next month or so. 

“You look nice,” David said. Roger turned slowly and said nothing, staring at David with an empty look in his eyes. “With or without makeup,” David finished. He remembered waiting around the house for hours and hours after Nick and Rick had left. Roger hadn’t returned and around Hour Four he’d started worrying. The doctor had said that under Roger’s circumstances, odd ones, it wasn’t always easy to tell when it would happen. Sometimes it was a day or two of coughing and sneezing, day three being bedridden, and day four being a long, hard struggle. Other times, it was sudden. There and gone in seconds. Breathing one minute and dead the next. 

Roger had walked through the back door and into the kitchen, smiling at David, who was starting to cook dinner over the stove, and plopping down in the chair at the small table. Then David had started crying, unable to control himself, falling to a heap on the floor and sobbing ‘it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault’ over and over again. Roger had come down and sat with him there on the wooden floor, holding him and murmuring to him, kissing his forehead and nose and eyelids. This had only made David cry even harder, who knew how fucked up it all was. It was Roger who should’ve been crying and needing to be comforted, not the other way around. Roger was dying, weeks from death, and here he was, stepping up to be the strong one. 

“Let’s go outside. It’s a nice day…” Roger said absentmindedly, turning away from the mirror and smiling. 

“Okay. That sounds good.” David was more than used to Roger’s new habit of fragmented thoughts and unfinished sentences, the kind that drifted off halfway out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs, the sickness, or trauma, or everything all put together. 

 

Roger sat underneath one of the trees, bits of sunlight hitting his toes and shins and hair, turning in something near blond. David laid down next to him, resting his head in Roger’s lap. There was a breeze and David felt it brush over his face and arms, Roger started gently running a hand through David’s hair, smiling down at him. 

“Nice day.” 

“It is.” David grinned. Roger didn’t say anything more, staring off in the distance. Whether it was the line of trees by the house or something only he could see, David didn’t know. “You look nice,” David said, reaching up to stroke the side of Roger’s face. 

“You already said that…” 

“I know I did, but it’s true. You’re very pretty.” 

Roger frowned, looking like there was something he wanted to say that was just on the tip of his tongue. But then, whatever it was, he decided against, his face relaxing, eyes getting that empty look again. He stopped playing with David’s hair. 

“I sometimes wonder what happens after.”

It was David’s turn to frown. “Happens after what?”

“Death.” 

“Oh.” 

“‘Course I don’t think there’s an afterlife and I hope to God I don't have to do any of this again, but that’s the thing. There’s a lot of things we don’t know for certain, but death is the ultimate mystery. ‘Cause once you’re gone, you can’t come back.” David said nothing. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve offered something like “Well, we don’t have to think about that for a long time”, but that was no longer true. He’d been planning on getting some meds himself, after Roger, well… But he supposed he, too, had less time than others. He’d never thought about it before and really didn’t want to. 

“What do you want?” David asked. “You know, after.” 

“Me? I just want it to be like sleep. No dreaming, no memory. I wouldn’t even know I was dead.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Sleep seems nice. I’m very tired.” Roger smiled at him again, but it was a weary smile, and he really did look tired then. Tired and beaten and worn down. He got David to move his head so he could lie down, the two of them side by side in the grass. David held his hand, kissing him and petting his hair. Roger, pretty Roger, with his lipstick and mascara and painted nails. For how pristine and put together he appeared on the outside, David knew it was the exact opposite on the inside. He wore makeup to hide the fact that he was dying, disintegrating. David supposed that was the point. 

He remembered a few days ago when they’d been sitting on the bed, skin bare and covered in a sheen of sweat. He’d been afraid to push Roger too hard, afraid his bones would snap, afraid he would break. And sure, Roger had clearly had it worse, rougher, dirtier. But that was no longer, this wasn’t Chelsea, and he was dying. After, as David held him, he’d started coughing. Deep, rattling coughs that David knew, just by holding him, hurt. David had gotten him a glass of water, letting him take small sips as he had his back gently rubbed. It was David’s job to soothe him, to love him, to kiss his neck and pet his hair and wrap him in post-coital hugs. It was David, after all, who had gotten him into this mess in the first place. 

Roger still had a smile spread out his face, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. David smiled, too, cuddling into him and watching a bird perch on one of the branches above them, it’s blue feathers against lush, green leaves. The day was perfect: sunny, a few billowing clouds here and there, birds twittering from tree to tree, a breeze brushing over the grass. 

 

David knew he fell asleep. He knew because he woke up, slowly and peacefully, the sun farther along in the sky than before. But not by much, so he knew he couldn’t have been out for too long. Roger was still fast asleep next to him, hair spread around his head, lines gone from his face, making him look years younger. His colored lips, long eyelashes. David had to smile then, sitting up and gazing down at his Roger, who was lying near a bed of white lilies. He didn’t want to wake him, not in the slightest, wanting him to sleep on a bit longer. David stood, brushing bits off grass of his pants and shirt. There was a leaf in his hair and he plucked it out, watching it flutter to the ground. 

“C’mon, Roger. Time to get up, love.” That was all he said, not wanting to jar Roger awake, but to get him up gently. He didn’t want to leave him here, to have him wake, panicked and wondering why he was alone. “Roger.” David bent down, shaking his shoulder and kissing his nose. “Wake up, sweet thing.” Roger still didn’t stir, clearly deeply asleep. “Roger, Rog, c’mon, wake up.” Nothing. David shaking harder, harder, starting to shout and afraid to scream, knowing he’d hear the hysterics there. “Roger! Wake up! Roger, please, please wake up. No, no, no, no...not now, you still have a week. We were going to...together, you and I, Roger…” 

He was crying now, tears pouring down his cheeks as it started to sink in, as he started to see that Roger’s chest wasn’t rising and falling, that it was stationary and that he didn’t have a pulse and that he was dead, dead, dead. One last heaving sob, and then David said it, said what he should’ve said from the beginning, or when Roger was in the hospital, or last night even, as they sat on the bed holding each other. 

“Roger, I love you. Don’t leave me, not now, sweetheart. I still have to tell you I love you…” 

But he got no response; he never would. All he could do was shout, shout and scream and cry and get nothing in return because the dead don’t talk. So, gathering all his strength, he bent down and scooped Roger up. All one hundred pounds of him. And then he started to carry him back towards the house. 

 

Epilogue. 

 

After Roger died, I nearly died myself. Or rather, I tried to kill myself with a large dose of heroin. I didn’t think there’d be any other way to go, really. No jumping in front of a bus or the tube or hanging myself in the bedroom. No. Heroin had gotten us into this shit in the first place and it would get both of us out. 

Nick found me, and I’m not sure how, either. But one second I was falling onto the bed with a sigh of ecstasy and then it was all very blank and black for a bit and the next I was coming round in the hospital. Must’ve been how Roger felt. Then some doctor came in and told me I had AIDS and I said I already knew that, just get me on some damn meds. And they did. They said I had a long time to live, too, since they’d caught it early enough. I hadn’t wanted to die, not really. I’d just been sad and scared and feeling like I’d lost a piece of myself, not just Roger. I wouldn’t call him my other half, for all the times we’d loved one another, we’d hated each other just as much, if not more. 

 

I didn’t visit the flat for another five or six years. I hadn’t back since I’d found Roger that one May night in ‘86. I didn’t think the flat would even be open. I didn’t know if it was still Roger’s, if he’d paid it off, if I’d be able to get in at all. I don’t remember handling it after he died, but I didn’t remember a lot of things from that time. I had been drinking too much. 

I visited the flat the next day. It was raining, droplets battering the windows and blowing in cold air as I unlocked the door, hit with that stale smell of neglect and abandonment. It was eerie, chilling, to see everything exactly as it was over five years ago. Bed sheets still rumpled, two pillows against the headboard. The bathroom door open with makeup still on the sink and a long since dried up bottle of nail lacquer. There was still a coffee tin in one of the kitchen cupboards, filled with cotton balls and a few small packets of white powder. I put it back where I found it and hoped it was never discovered again. It had already ruined too many lives. 

I checked the closet next, nearly bursting into tears when I saw what was inside. Two black dresses, a winter coat, and three pairs of heels. The dresser only made me feel worse, with its junkie kit all zipped up in a nail file bag. Dirty spoons, a few burnt out tea lights, lacy underwear that made me feel sick. A belt and some awful leathery thing that I didn’t even want to touch. It looked painful. Then there was the money, all of it crammed into the lower drawers. Money that would never be spent, money that was handed over in the worst trade there was. 

But it was the thing in the last drawer that broke me. It was empty except for one thing: a twenty-pound note. My twenty-pound note, the one I’d given to him years ago when he’d been sick with the ‘worst flu ever’ and I only screamed at him. He was already sick then, we just didn’t know it. 

But he’d kept my twenty and he’d never spent it.


End file.
